With a single hand, she raised it, examining it closely. Dried bloodstains adorned the chest of the black leather jacket. Its matte finish had obscured them from her notice previously.

Yet, she hadn't sustained any injuries. So, could this blood be...

Nicole pivoted and made her way to Roscoe's door.

Finding it unlocked, Nicole swung it open without a second thought.

"Roscoe, what..." she began, but the sight before her cut her words short.

Roscoe was perched on a stool, clumsily dressing wounds that marred his back. A deep laceration ran from his shoulder to his lower back.

Struggling to reach the injury, his efforts to apply medicine were ineffective, and the bleeding hadn't stopped.

Nicole's eyes stung with unshed tears at the sight.

As Roscoe noticed her gaze, he hastily covered up and tried to rise.

“Stay seated," Nicole insisted, her voice thick with emotion. She reached out, touching his shoulder gingerly.

Roscoe sank back down, attempting to downplay his injuries. "It's nothing, really. It's just now that I've seen it..."

Nicole, her tone laden with disbelief, pressed, "Do you take me for a fool?"

In the midst of a heavy silence, Nicole's voice trembled slightly.

“Is this from the parking lot incident?"

Her mind flashed back to the guards, their hands wielding sinister, blade-Like weapons, which she had first mistaken for whips.

Those very weapons were intended for her, but Roscoe had intercepted the blow, taking the hit in her stead.

When Nicole broached the subject, Roscoe dismissed it with a stoic front. “It's nothing. I've weathered worse."

Nicole, driven by concern, unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the grim reality of his injuries. It confirmed Jarrod's words. Roscoe's existence within the Watts dynasty was fraught with hardship.

As she reached out, Roscoe caught her hand in a tender grasp, stopping her. “Careful, you'll soil your hands," he cautioned.

Nicole bowed her head, noting the crimson that had already transferred to her skin.